


The Broken Wheel

by RenaRoo



Series: Sapphic September [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Jon/Dany Baby, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: [Hypothetical Ending AU] As warden of the North under Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of Westeros, Sansa finds herself host to the woman she once bent the knee to, and is concerned with the prospect of history repeating itself. Little does she know, Daenerys shares a similar concern. DanyxSansa. Sapphic September: Magic





	The Broken Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this is a perceived future where the united kingdoms stave off the Long Night and the Night King, Jon impregnated Dany, but then he died heroically in battle. This is years later, featuring Daenerys, Sansa, and the remains of both houses with the figurative and literal future for them embodied in the daughter of Dany and Jon. It got incredibly long incredibly fast

While the Long Night had seen its end in a merciless prevailing of fire and sword, and the living men and women of Westeros and Essos were salvaged only by the innumerable losses of Westerosi and, for her concerns, particularly Northerners’ lives, it truly had been a long Winter. The longest to her memory, which reminded her of what Old Nan had terrified her with as a chid.

_Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is the time for fear, when the white walkers move through the woods._

Reality, bitterly enough, had been both greater and lesser than the tells of a midwife.

Lady Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Sworn protector of the First Men and the Free Folk, stood at the top of the eighty foot wall overseeing the white lands of her people. On her order, men and women were out there, even in the light falling snow, using brooms and at times shovels to clear the path to their hold from the Southern roads. They might not have done so happily, but they assuredly did so faithfully, and Sansa felt her gratitude for them far more than she felt the chill of winter anymore.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa took a collective breath, looking to the skies, out of instinct more than anything else, and then began to walk down from the wall, her embroidered dire wolf on her chest and the fur trimmings of her cloak nipping at the heels of her boots.

Winterfell was in a state of chaos in a way. An organized disaster under her very direction. Butchers preparing a feast worthy of a hundred men, the maids throwing out hot water over the grounds from their windows both from scrubbing the castle inside and for wetting down the fresh hay laid out over the grounds to keep ice and mud from coating where carriages and horses would be drawn in.

With a polite smile she nodded to each Northerner and Free Folk who greeted her or called her name as she passed them. But her stomach felt unsettled, and her heart heavy with memory.

“Lady  _Sansa_ , Lady  _Sansa,”_ a mocking tone came from over her shoulder.

Despite herself, Sansa turned enough to see what she already knew, her eyes rolling away from her sister as she turned back to looking where they were walking. “I told you not to do that,” Sansa admonished her sister. “Sneaking up on me like that, Arya… It just isn’t as funny as you think it is.”

“Even if it  _weren’t_ as funny as I thought, it’d still be funny,” Arya answered, picking up her step so she could be in stride with Sansa. Her clothes were heavier than Arya’s, thick with leather like armor, dull browns and dark navies. None of which was cut to the fit of a dress or even a lady’s pants like many Free Folk women would wear. Arya was just Arya. “Besides, you’re nervous and humor is supposed to help that.”

“I am  _not_ nervous,” Sansa argued, turning with Arya in toward the castle.

“You’re nervous and it’s making everyone else nervous because  _Lady Sansa is the Steel Wolf, she can’t be unsettled, all of her previous husbands had their cocks eaten off by dire wolves,”_ Arya joked, quoting the North’s favorite rumors concerning their Warden. “If Lady Sansa’s scared, every man, woman, and child be they Northern or Free will absolutely  _lose their shit_ when a damned dragon lands inside the walls again.”

Sansa was already in the process of removing her gloves when Arya began laughing. She gave her sister a disdainful look and used one of the gloves to smack her shoulder. “Stop it,” she all but hissed at her younger sister. “And they don’t call me  _Lady Sansa_ , that’s you. Only you.”

“Well I can’t very well go around calling you  _Lady Stark_ when I’m a  _Stark_ or else I’d have to start going around calling Bran  _Lord Stark_ and seven hells if he deserves  _more_ brandishing of his incredible ego,” Arya mocked.

They continued up the tower, unspoken but fully aware of both of their destinations. Along the way people scurried about fulfilling all of Sansa’s commands from earlier that morning when she first received the raven from Dragonstone and learned that Queen Daenerys was coming to Winterfell with a full company of servants and soldiers consisting of her most loyal men and women. Not to mention her daughter and the two dragons.

Sansa couldn’t even force herself to think of the dragons.

“What do you think that she wants?” Arya asked as they made their way down the hall and toward Ban’s room.

“The Queen?” Sansa asked, as if the same question had not been racking her mind ever since the message first arrived.

“No, Brienne, she’s so indecisive about how many additional guards the hold will need,” Arya mocked. “Of  _course_ I mean the Queen. It’s not like she just arrives all the time. Like  _anyone_ goes North without reason. It’s colder here than in the South and the South still has at least two feet of snow last I visited.”

“There you go,” Sansa uttered distractedly. “Arya, the assassin, the worshipper of the Many Faced God, can travel around the world on a whim, but the moment someone else leaves their hold she has to assume the worst of everyone involved.”

“That’s because I travel all the time. It’s normal for me. It’s the rest of the world that lives, breeds, and dies in the same shit town that they were born in most of the time,” she replied candidly. “Did I tell you that the last time I saw Gendry he was in Flea Bottom?  _Flea Bottom._ A hero of the Long Night and he was hanging around in  _Flea Bottom_ last I saw him. Who lives in fucking  _Flea Bottom?”_

“I was born in Winterfell, I’m Lady of Winterfell, I live in Winterfell as we speak, I intend to eventually die here, too,” Sansa remarked. “What is your point, Arya? Just out of curiosity.”

“Can’t say I intended to have one outside of the fact that what you just told me was dishearteningly pathetic,” Arya replied. “I love Winterfell, it’s home. If I die here I would come back so the Many Faced God could fuck me over even more in the second life but at least in exchange I’d die somewhere other than Winterfell.”

Sansa glared at her sister before rolling her eyes and pushing open the door to Bran’s library. “Bran?” she called out, only to let out a long sigh as she saw him across the room, his eyes milked over and head tilted back in his chair as he sat by the window.

“Fucksake,” Arya muttered, marching over to their brother in irritation. “Brandon Stark!”

Sansa stood back. She did not pretend to understand the magic that supposedly ran through all of their veins, but strongest within Bran himself. It terrified her more than dragons or white walkers, the possibilities of the Old Gods having a hand on her and all of her family in a way few others had… That was information she didn’t know how to correctly process.

Arya stopped just in front of Bran and put her hands on his shoulders. “Whatever you’re watching in your head isn’t  _nearly_ as interesting as the mess Sansa’s made of Winterfell so come awake now. We don’t have time to play around like you’re dim, as funny as it is that most people in Winterfell whisper that that’s what this is.”

Bran took a deep breath, his eyes rolling back down with a blink and he looked expectantly at Arya. “You’re curious about Queen Daenerys and her intentions.”

“What, did you go and worg yourself into a mouse in the hall just to spy on what we were going to come up and tell you anyway? That’s completely useless,” Arya replied without missing a beat. “Sansa, tell him that if he’s going to go mental on us, he has to make it at least count.”

“I never waste my abilities on trivial matters. Everything the Three Eyed Raven does is for reason,” he assured Arya. “Good reason.”

With a dull look, Arya glanced at Sansa, as if she was supposed to be some sort of deciding factor in the tiff. Sansa felt a whole new wave of understanding for her mother she had never had before.

“I don’t understand  _any_ of this magic,” Sansa replied. “Bran can decide what he…  _worgs_ into and what he doesn’t. He’s a grown man.”

Bran nodded almost sagely.

“There you are, nervous again,” Arya replied, rounding Bran’s chair to grip onto its handles and push him. “Bran, what is the Queen coming to Winterfell for? Did you at  _least_ learn that instead of spying on us or whatever it is that you do.”

“Arya, the Queen is the mother to our niece,” Sansa reminded her. “Is it so outlandish to assume that Queen Daenerys would like for Princess Nathaleya to see the lands her father hailed from?”

“In all technicality, Jon was our cousin, son of Aunt Lyanna,” Bran reminded them, as if he had not told the story a hundred fold since the first days of the Long Night.

“He was our brother,” Sansa corrected. “Jon was and always shall be our brother, Bran. And even if you were very young when he left Winterfell for the Night’s Watch, I would hope you could remember him being our brother.”

“Besides, being reminded he’s  _not_ our brother makes me gag at who our cousin-in-law is to him,” Arya scoffed.

“Arya,” Sansa tried to correct.

“You both think it, too,” Arya insisted.

“I’m fairly certain that insulting the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is a doomed endeavor,” Sansa remarked. “Punishable by dragon.”

“Only if you don’t kill the dragon first,” Arya continued jokingly, She then patted Bran’s shoulder as she pushed him out into the hall. “Come on now, tell me what you know. It’s always  _something,_ isn’t it?”

Bran glanced up to Sansa for a moment. He always had that look of knowing more than he should, though for the life of her, Sansa couldn’t figure out  _what_ he was thinking then and there with that look.

“What?” Sansa asked, that time hearing the nervousness in her voice herself.

“Do  _you_ know why Queen Daenerys is arriving from Dragonstone?” he asked curiously.

“No, why would I?” Sansa asked almost defensively. “I don’t…  _worg_ or… change my faces, or… There is nothing unusual about me.”

Arya’s cackling laughter filled the hall. “Nothing is more convincing of a woman’s normalcy than her declaring it,” Arya almost howled.

“You are a living Stark,” Bran added. “There is nothing more unusual in these changing times than that.”

A depressing silence fell over the three of them for a few more strides. There was a humility to the comment that was deafening.

“Princess Nathaleya has the blood of a Stark running thick in her veins,” Sansa stated lowly. “No man nor woman lived and breathed the words of our father the way that Jon managed. No one else embodied the name of Stark as Jon did. For every silver hair on top of the princess’ blessed head there is a bone or nail or eye or heart that is Stark.” Sansa made a point of looking Arya’s way. “ _That_ must be why Queen Daenerys comes to the North. Because it is where the Stark in our Princess  _thrives._ ”

Arya raised her brows slightly before leaning in over Bran’s shoulder and whispering loudly, “Perhaps Sansa’s magic lives in her tongue and that’s what’s come to interest the Queen.”

That time, as even Bran grinned at the comment, Sansa took both her gloves and used them to hit both of her siblings over the head.

* * *

“Muñnykeā,” rolled from the silver haired child’s tongue, her head rested softly beneath her mother’s breasts, back leaned completely back against Daenerys’ stomach to resist the winds that thundered over Drogon’s scales. “Gaomagon issa lēkia zaldrīzoti mirre mazverdagon ēdrugi?”

Daenerys was curled over her daughter’s back, gripping onto the spines of Drogon’s shoulders as they rode, keeping her precious princess safe through their travels. For as much as Daenerys trusted her first borns with the life of her daughter, there was still a great danger in riding dragons.

Even for a Targaryen. Even for the Daughter of Snow.

“Nathaleya, dragons tire their wings as much as a man tires his arms or legs,” she answered her child, looking down until her chin brushed against the furry hood of her daughter’s coat. “But Drogon and Rhaegal are mostly riding the winds on this journey, so they will travel farther but slower. You will have to know the difference when you are old enough to ride a dragon on your own.”

There was a soft pout from beneath Daenerys and she leaned further back, as if trying to escape back into the mother which she came from. “Tyron iksos verdagon ao ȳzaldrīzes isse quptenka ēngos.”

“I speak in the language I choose to speak, Little One, and you shouldn’t forget it,” Daenerys replied, pressing her lips against the back of the child’s head. “We’re going a slower route so that we will arrive at the same time as the caravan. Missandei is with them and you may speak to her in any language you please. But you will speak to others in the language they know.”

For a moment, her daughter was quiet. Nathaleya bravely — far braver than Daenerys at her age — leaned across her mother’s protective arm and peered past the gliding wings of Drogon to see the snow covered valleys below as they crossed.

“Will they like me if I speak to them?” the little princess asked.

“Your family loves you, as does your kingdom, as does your mother,” Daenerys assured her.

In truth, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms wasn’t entirely sure  _what_ to make of the North. It held so many terrible memories for everyone who had fought on her side during the Long Night, who fought for the right of all mankind to live through the very long winter they were still in. And the Starks were the key to that fight, as they were the key to the relative safety the kingdom had known for the last six years of winter.

And of course, Jon Snow, the Prince that was Promised just as Daenerys was, and the father of her child, had been every bit the living embodiment of the North itself that the only end to the Long Night was for him to deliver its end to the Night King himself. The fact that he was lost to them so soon — lost to Daenerys so soon — had made the North more bitter than cold.

But the Starks were Jon’s family, and were indispensable to Daenerys through the years. But even if the Lady of Winterfell had bent the knee years and years ago, Daenerys still doubted whether it was taken for security, taken for loyalty, or taken for Jon.

Still, Daenerys trusted a Stark word above anything else, and found that their house was not one to be concerned with compared to Southerners with their prides and far too much time to find things to complain about to their queen.

Suddenly, Nathaleya grew stiff, her body rigid against Daenerys’ before she suddenly rocked back and forth in place. Despite the number of times Daenerys had told her to not let go of Drogon’s spines, she did just that in order to reach over Daenerys’ arm and point toward the grounds.

“Muñnykeā! Konīr airy iksos! Nye kostagon ūndegon ziry!” the child declared loudly in Valyrian. “Winterfell!”

Sure enough, Daenerys could see for herself that the winter hold was fast upon them, a steady line of Unsullied and Dothraki screamers surrounding drawn carriages entering from the Southern road. Some relief finally came to Daenerys as she could see that everything seemed to be fine, that a trip North had not spelled doom for any of her trusted advisors, soldiers, or allies. Even if in the current timid peace it was difficult to imagine  _what_ might have happened to any of them, there was always the unseen threat.

Ruling, after all, was not the job gods assigned to lesser men or women.

Leaning with her body, Daenerys steered Drogon to begin a circling descent toward Winterfell. In the distance, Rhaegal saw and followed his brother’s lead. They dove together in a spectacular display, the blistering winds racing against Daenerys and Nathaleya, prompting the Queen to hold tighter to her children and also be grateful for the foresight of her Hand for putting a scarf up to the Princess’ eyes in order to keep her safe from such cold winds.

When at last they landed, it was to the calls of shock and surprise of the Northerners within the walls of Winterfell. Judging by the reactions, it was the first time many of them had seen the legendary dragons which had helped stay the white walkers six years before, even though most were certainly old enough to have fought the battle for themselves.

At the royal carriage, Tyrion was already standing beside Grey Worm and Missandei, in line from across the line of Starks greeting them likewise. Drogon lowered his neck and shoulders low enough that Daenerys could safely slide her leg over his back’s scales and stand firmly on his haunches before reaching up and taking her daughter, a hand beneath each arm, and lowering her to the ground.

Once Daenerys had stepped off from Drogon she turned and patted his scales. “Jikagon sōvegon,” she told him in High Valyrian.

Dragon wasted no time in looking upward, out of the walls of Winterfell and taking off with the same grace and tenaciousness with which he had landed. Where he went, Rhaegal followed.

Excitedly, Nathaleya pulled away her scarf and stomped through the freshly laid hay on the grounds, looking up after the dragons and waving with both arms. “Germs alas, lēkias! Nyke jorrāelagon ao!”

“Nathaleya,” Daenerys said, grabbing her daughter’s shoulders to turn her to their guests and remind her of her manners.

Immediately, Nathaleya straightened up and folded her hands against her thighs before hurriedly stepping over toward the faces she knew. Daenerys simply shook her head, a fond smile on her face.

When Daenerys’ eyes shifted toward Missandei, her oldest friend and confidant smiled and nodded back before looking to the gathered Starks and Northern nobles and Free Folk chieftains.

“Here hails Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Mereen,” Missandei began, pausing so that her smile of pride could only grow larger. “The Queen that was Chosen.”

When Nathaleya had scurried close enough to her tutor, Missandei smoothly held onto her shoulders and lightly pushed her further toward the Northern audience. The little girl’s brown eyes could not have grown wider had they tried.

“And introducing to the Northern Realms,” Missandei called out with the same fervor, “Nathaleya Winterborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Daughter of Snow.”

At that, almost immediately, the entire crowd erupted into a cheer, “ _Daughter of Snow! Daughter of Snow!”_

Face flushed, Nathaleya pressed back against Missandei’s firm hands. “Nyke jaelagon naejot jikagon lenton sir,” she said loud enough that the Northerners knew she was speaking a tongue foreign to them, a fact that made those closer slowly stop their praises in discomfort.

Tyron’s face twisted and he looked toward Daenerys before seeing Nathaleya’s scarf. He walked over best he could with his thick winter clothes, reaching down and taking the scarf — snatching it up in one swoop before walking toward Daenerys again, leaning slightly. “If I have told you once I have told you a thousand times, most of this kingdom doesn’t have an interest in being ruled by people who are not  _one of them_ , let alone are native in another tongue.”

“High Valyrian is a Targaryen’s mother tongue,” Daenerys reminded her Hand. “Nathaleya is nervous.”

“Of course she’s nervous, she’s  _six_ and just got dropped into a den of dire wolves,” Tyrion said before glancing around the area cautiously. “Possibly  _literally._ I’ve heard stories from Varys that there is an entire pack of dire wolves that are free roaming the Northern countryside now.”

“Varys isn’t here to be blamed for spreading rumors,” Daenerys reminded Tyrion playfully.

“And just why do you think  _that_ is?” he muttered.

Daenerys walked with Tyrion back toward their party and in return, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, stepped up to meet them.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys greeted with a curt bow.

“My Queen,” Sansa replied, bowing lower. “Thank you so much for honoring the North with your visit during this long winter. The people feel remembered and appreciated by their ruler as a result and have brought supplies for a great feast.”

“The only gratitude here, Lady Sansa, is mine,” Daenerys assured her. “I will always remember the debt the living world owes the North and its people.”

Another rumble of supportive noises broke out from among the Northerners.

“Well alright then,” Arya Stark said, leaning out from around Sansa’s back. “Let’s get on about this feast then.”

“Arya,” Sansa hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

“The suggestion is a splendid one,” Daenerys agreed. “Lady Sansa, after you.”

Sansa smiled politely and bowed more stiffly before leading their procession toward the castle. And in that time it didn’t take long for Tyrion to find Daenerys’ side once again.

“Are you  _certain_ about this trip?” Tyrion muttered. “If Yara Greyjoy gets wind—“

“Tyrion, the wheel is broken,” Daenerys reminded him. “It’s time for a better example in the world. Starting with us.”

The dwarf huffed and shook his head at her. “I truly have spent too much time as your hand. I do believe I’m rubbing off on you. Once not so long ago you were never this excited to have a verbal put down.”

“It’s true, it’s a world opened up to me by you, Hand of the Queen,” Daenerys joked in return as they entered Winterfell’s inner castle.

* * *

Arya’s ability to tell stories, mostly ones with no basis in reality, to convince every solitary person in a room who knew better was one of the more astounding joys of the evening. No matter how many times Sansa herself was witness to it, she still was captivated by the story all the way until Arya stopped her telling, straightened herself, standing on the middle of the table in the great hall and looked around with her arms folded behind her back.

Then she asked the titular question which was always asked at the end of her game.

“Was it truth?” she asked, glancing around the room, listening for how many of the audience screamed  _truth_ back at her. “Or was it lie?” Again she took pause and listened for all the ones who screamed  _lie_ back at her. A coy smile never left her face.

Sansa had long ago made an oath to herself to never participate out loud and was just watching with raised eyebrows, wondering how much longer Arya would keep up her favorite game in front of so many people she barely even knew.

And in that moment, she almost forgot that she was sitting to the right of her sworn queen. And indeed did forget until the silver haired Targaryen leaned closer to Sansa.

In reaction, Sansa leaned back as well, eyes wide as she looked to see if perhaps the queen had too much wine. But the lean in seemed purposeful as she turned and looked at Sansa with a smile. “You know your sister’s heart better than anyone here, is this one true or is it a lie?” she asked in good fun.

For a moment, Sansa was too stunned to reply, but she shook the shock out of herself soon enough and smiled pleasantly back at the queen. “Just because I know her heart best, doesn’t mean that I know much at all. Only more than most,” Sansa confessed. “In truth, Bran is far better at this game than I am. It would be best if you were to ask him. He is something of our maester here at Winterfell. Not to the delight of our actual maester of course.”

The queen hummed, a hand against her cheek. “Would how well he does have anything to do with his rumored  _visions_?” Daenerys asked casually, as if the secret of Bran was something discussed as commonly as anything else in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Beg your pardon,” Sansa replied quickly, protectively.

“I have a man who works with me, claims himself a spymaster. He says he has little birds in every part of the kingdoms, both Westeros and in Essos,” Daenerys explained. “His information is usually very reliable.”

Sansa thought quietly to herself for a moment before looking back to Daenerys. “You mean Varys. The spymaster who worked for King Robert.”

“Also for my father,” Daenerys answered. “His loyalty is to the lands, not the crown. Which is why his word is trusted in my confidence. Even if sometimes there are rumors of things like wild dire wolves running across the Northern countryside.”

Instinctively, Sansa glanced Arya’s way, remembering how her sister had the occasional run in with Nymeria. But she quickly looked back to the queen. “Sometimes rumors hold grains of truth. Sometimes they have none.”

Arya had finally worked the crowd up enough and she looked around, arms out. “It was  _truth!”_ she called out, the jeers and cheers of the entire room. The people called upon her for another round while some of the lower houses and soldiers exchanged betted coins and entrees according to their betting from the previous round.

“So you’re telling your queen that Brandon Stark of Winterfell does not claim himself to be a legendary Three Eyed Raven and capable of seeing the future and past and all between?” Daenerys asked, eyebrow raised. “Furthermore, would you not share such information with the mother of your brother’s daughter?”

Looking back at Daenerys, Sansa played a little game where she tried to imagine the intent behind Daenerys’ questions.

She did not like the least nice option, in truth.

“It’s simply that it’s not something to be told by others but asked of Bran himself,” Sansa answered. “I could not tell you what is in Bran’s heart no more than I could Arya’s. And that’s even with being the one left in the world who would know him most.”

Daenerys smiled at that, almost looking impressed. Her eyes then looked to the embroidered wolf across Sansa’s chest.

“Winter suits a Stark,” Daenerys complimented. “You have grown into a woman to be envied, Lady Sansa.”

“You may call me Sansa, my Queen,” Sansa replied.

Daenerys smiled more, her purple eyes shining in the flickering candles’ light. “In confidence, Sansa, you may call me Daenerys.”

Sansa smiled back, something warm within her at receiving such an honest compliment from their beautiful queen. “Thank you, m’lady,” she replied aptly.

“I could be persuaded to drop more of my titles in public if you could arrange for me to meet Bran in private after this feast,” Daenerys continued. “I would like to ask him myself about my question. And then depending on the answer I have many other questions for him.”

Inside her own mind, Sansa played a little game, watching the pieces move across the board throughout their conversation. She was a long time player, something Jon never learned nor her father, and even if she felt satisfaction in the North, she knew the Game was still being played in the South.

The union of the North and the South was always the most frayed, and it was also only when they were united that the Realm was truly changed. Queen Daenerys was known for inciting worldwide change in ways that no normal person, no  _non-magical_ person would have ever managed in the same circumstances. She was a mother to  _dragons,_ the literal  _defender of the realm._

And the daughter who she held so close to her, with her silver Targaryen hair and lovely dark, brown Stark eyes, was the future of that very necessary union between North and South. The North  _clamored_ to take pride in a ruler, even a future ruler, being tied to the North. It was why they were there.

But Nathaleya Targaryen was not queen yet, her mother was. And Daenerys had spent most of her life not in Westeros but in Essos. She had moved the capital to  _Dragonstone_ instead of King’s Landing, but it still was not  _North._ And haven Northern blood but not experience in the North herself was not going to be enough for some Northerners and Free Folk to follow Nathaleya even in the future, let alone Daenerys  _now._

Which meant, politically, Daenerys’ best political move was to strengthen her alliance with the North by  _marriage._

And Bran was the only male Stark, legitimate or bastard, left of their once great house.

“I see,” Sansa replied stiffly at last. She swallowed, an unusual feeling catching her throat. “It will be done immediately after the feast, my Queen. I will see to it myself.”

The Targaryen queen’s own brows furrowed as well. “I meant my word when I said you could call me Daenerys, Sansa. I would hope that you could come to see myself and Nathaleya as family. We both have so little of it left.”

“I understand,” Sansa replied, confused by her own internal burning, like frostbite in her lungs. “I truly do, my Queen, but reminding myself of your title out loud is most comfortable for me right now.”

Daenerys slowly nodded, unconvinced.

From the middle of the chamber, Arya laughed out and held up her hands over the calls of the crowd. “ _Lie!”_ she declared to the ruckus of her audience once again.

The burning continued within Sansa’s breast, making her sit uneasily in her own seat, so she slowly scooted her seat back, drawing Daenerys’ attention to her again. “My sincerest apologies, Queen Daenerys,” Sansa uttered as she began to stand, mindful to keep her head bowed. “I must take leave for a moment, it seems like my body has grown confused on me.”

“Are you alright?” Daenerys asked in concern.

“I always am,” Sansa lied as easily as Arya for once as she slipped out behind the crowd and moved to the halls.

Her heart was pounding, the heat of hundreds of burning candles and the stink of a hundred or more people crowded within the great hall was enough to make most ill. But Sansa was not most, and the burning was not candles or heat, but something inside her confused and twisted.

She needed the comfort of the snow and ice. Of the weirwood tree and old gods who she didn’t talk to even when she remembered how.

It was the only thing she could think of with her eyes weeping without cause and her tightly held control over her small world of the North breaking apart before her hands.

And even still, those things did little to help her understand why she felt so much pain with her queen’s plans.

* * *

Daenerys stepped outside of the room after Brandon Stark’s counsel and was not surprised in the  _least_ to see Tyrion waiting in the hall, standing by Nathaleya as she sat on the floor. She stood, brows high, hands held together over her stomach as she looked down at the two of them.

“And the words of House Stark…” Tyrion led her.

Nathaleya groaned, cheeks smothered by her hands as they rested in her palms, she was looking down to the floor in a pout. “Airy iksos door kirimves,” she muttered.

Tyrion held a finger to her face. “You do that because you think no one else knows Valyrian but your mother and Missandei. But I am a fast learner, my little princess, and I disagree with you entirely. It  _is_ fun to learn because it is fun to keep your wits over others. It’s how you get to where you are in life. And knowing the words and sigils of the most important houses in your kingdoms is all that and more.” When he could see that Nathaleya’s interests were far from his reach, he opened and closed his mouth a few times before leaning closer. “House Stark is simple. What’s the one bloody animal we’ve seen on every tapestry, shirt, breast plate, and banner since we got here?”

“Dire wolf,” she answered finally.

“And the words of the house of your father?” Tyrion pressed.

“Fire and blood,” Nathaleya answered with a smile that said far too much about how she knew  _exactly_ how wrong she was being.

“That is Targaryen and you are driving me to drink,” Tyrion answered with a sigh as he reached toward the nearest table where wine and glass were waiting for him.

Daenerys looked to her daughter. “Nathaleya Winterborn,” she said sternly, causing Nathaleya to immediately look up with wide eyes. “The Hand is asking you a question. If you wish to be a good queen someday, to be the queen your people will choose for themselves, then you must have a wise Hand by your side. To teach you and steer you.”

Tyrion held his glass to his lips but he did not drink yet, looking almost moved by Daenerys’ words. He then glanced toward Nathaleya again.

Getting to her feet, Nathaleya took a deep breath and looked at Tyrion. “The house words of House Stark are…  _Winter is coming_ ,” she answered at last. Then she spun around on her heels to look at Daenerys with a pout. “But that doesn’t make  _any_ sense because winter has  _always_ been here.”

“Certainly feels like it,” Tyrion said, lowering his glass. “Now, I said to Missandei I would keep with you waiting in the hall until your mother was done speaking to the Stark boy. She’s done speaking with the Stark boy so you should be running back to your room and jump in bed before a dire wolf finds you.”

Nathaleya stiffened at the threat and then ran to Daenerys to hug her waist.

Daenerys looked exhaustedly at Tyrion as she petted her daughter’s head. “A dire wolf, Tyrion?”

“You can only do so much with a six year old who is not afraid of being eaten by dragons and speaks three languages around you to make your head spin,” Tyrion replied.

Smiling down at her daughter, Daenerys said softly, “Jikagon naejot ēdrugon, issa sōna zaldrīzes. Nyke jorrāelagon ao.”

Smiling, Nathaleya buried her head against Daenerys’ dress. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao.” She then took off down the hall to the guest chambers she shared with her mother and Missandei.

Tyrion joined Daenerys in watching after the little girl before concentrating on Daenerys. “Well then,  _that_ was quite a long discussion. I think spring broke while you were in there,” Tyrion said in jest. “Tell me, how far does a Three Eyed Raven see? And was there an  _ounce_ of it that was not cryptic beyond the understanding of mere mortal men?”

“It was very insightful,” Daenerys replied. “I got the answers I came for. And was advised where I should go to break the news to Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion stared at Daenerys in disbelief. “So you are  _actually_ to go through with this plan,” he said as if he had just realized it himself.

“Of course I am,” Daenerys replied. “The wheel is broken. Changes have been made. I want a content kingdom.”

“And you think this will—“ Tyrion cut himself off and took a deep drink of his glass of wine. “This is what you do to me, Daenerys.”

Daenerys looked at her Hand intently. “Tyrion,” she said softly. “I… You know your counsel is held in my utmost regards.”

“When you want it, yes,” Tyrion replied, lowering his wine.

“And you know you have earned my faith this day and one thousand days over by now,” she continued.

“I should hope as Hand of the Queen I have,” he agreed.

“Then you know that if I should fail at anything I decide to do, that should I make a mess of things that I personally cannot escape, you and Missandei are the only ones within my circle who have my faith to keep Nathaleya safe. To keep her good. To make her the queen I failed to be.”

Tyrion took a deep breath. “You know I love Nathaleya as if she were my own daughter. But you  _also_ know that you are unlike any ruler in any history of any land, and most of that was earned without my counsel.” He looked at her almost proudly. “Sometimes it becomes the job of the Hand to put faith in the decisions of his queen.”

“Thank you, Tyrion,” Daenerys replied. She then adjusted her cloak. “Now, I will be meeting Lady Sansa at this grandiose weirwood tree over on the north part of the wall.”

Tyrion looked at her before shaking his head. “Well, is she at least expecting you?” he asked.

“No,” Daenerys replied. “I expect this to be another long talk. Are you going to wait on me for this one, too?”

“If I have not passed out on this Northern spit they call wine,” Tyrion replied. “Having shipments from Essos truly  _has_ spoiled me, you know.”

Daenerys smiled at him and shook her head before pulling up the hood of her cloak and heading out of the Stark’s castle and down to the main floor.

With her signature features shrouded by her cloak, Daenerys walked past the various guests of Winterfell with nary a second look from the majority. She walked straight out the doors to the courtyard and walked toward the northern exit where a large, sturdy woman soldier stood in wait, hand on he sword. She was unmistakable. Especially when she stepped between Daenerys and the path toward the weirwood tree.

“I am sorry, m’lady, but Lady Stark is in prayer and asks not to be disturbed,” Brienne of Tarth said sternly.

“As much as I wish to respect such a wish, I am afraid I am in need of her time,” Daenerys replied, lifting up enough of her hood that the noble knight could see who she was.

Brienne took a deep breath, and lowered herself to one knee. “My apologies, Queen Daenerys. I was not aware it was you.”

“As would be the point of subterfuge,” Daenerys replied, putting her hood back on. “Would it be alright for me to speak with the Warden of the North?”

“I can only assume if it is what you want then it is what will happen,” the knight replied.

“Let us both hope,” Daenerys replied.

Walking past the knight, the path was hard to trace, so covered in snow. Most of it was freshly fallen, but the faintest outline of previous steps made it clear to Daenerys where she should go.

Soon, through the darkness of night and bright against the soft whites and blues of snow, the blood red, five pointed leaves of the weirwood tree was visible. An ancient face grown into its bark weeped with red sap, and it looked upon a small bench where the Warden of the North sat, staring over a frozen pond. Her bright red hair shown as brightly as the leaves themselves.

Once she was close enough, Daenerys lowered her own hood. “My apologies for interrupting any prayers or meditations,” Daenerys said as she neared Sansa, drawing the Lady’s attention. “I’m unfamiliar with the customs of the Old Gods and don’t know what they look like.”

“They look like any other religion’s prayers,” Sansa answered. “Bent knee, bowed head, speaking to air with a glimmer of hope that it’s being heard.”

Daenerys stopped approaching, raising a brow at the response.

Sansa seemed to gather her senses at seeing Daenerys’ reaction and then flushed, lowering to her knees from the bench. “My apologies, my Queen. I did not mean to offend by speaking out of turn. I know what a comfort religions are to a great many of the Realms.”

“But not to you,” Daenerys inferred.

“I’m…” Sansa thought on it before looking up. “No. I’m afraid not.”

“Starks, so truthful,” Daenerys said, a smile coming to her lips.

“Clearly you weren’t paying attention to Arya’s game,” Sansa laughed.

“Fair enough,” Daenerys replied, looking to the unique tree again. “Now it’s my turn to apologize for speaking out of turn but… if you are not out here for prayer… do you mind telling me why you  _are_ here?” she asked. “It is rather cold. And rather lonely.”

Sansa nodded to the comments. “That’s fair. It is both of those things but… my father would come here and reflect. He was very loved as Lord of Winterfell, and trusted by the kingdom until the Lannister’s deceit to be an honest and true man,” she said, swallowing. “When I wish to have a tenth of his strength or a tenth of his honor, I come out here and try to think of all the trials he must have felt as Warden of the North when he came out here.” She smiled a bit, shaking her head. “I feel like I relate to him as a completely different person now. I know so much more about him and what he did even before he was Hand of the King.”

Daenerys listened carefully and took a breath. “And do you reflect upon your father for wisdom as well?” she asked.

A laugh came from Sansa that she quickly choked off. “Sorry. No. My father was very wise in his ways. But they were not the ways that wisdom came to me or how I got to where I am now,” she explained. “I feel, as unfortunate as it may be, some of our greatest wisdom comes from our most formidable enemies.”

Nodding, Daenerys found an entirely new respect for the Lady Stark. “You truly are wise.” She walked forward more, coming closer to Sansa. “I expect you know that with as much land and as many people as there are in my domains, I am looking to strengthen my alliances where needed, and to make moves which will incite change across all the kingdoms,” Daenerys explained. “And change, like so many other accomplishments, is best demonstrated by example.”

“Of course,” Sansa answered. “Which is why you spoke to Bran.”

“I sought his counsel on many matters for our Realm. It…” she hesitated, searching for a correct description. “It was fascinating.”

Again, Sansa gave a small laugh, though she didn’t try hard to hide it. “Arya and I long ago settled on calling it  _bloody weird.”_

“It is,” Daenerys laughed in return. “But he made me more confident in what I want to do next.”

Sansa lowered her head. She seemed to have an expectant but still worried look on her face, refusing to meet Daenerys’ eyes. “And what would that be, my Queen?”

Daenerys looked at Sansa for a long while. “I wish to propose a union between our houses. Strengthening the connection between our people and ensuring that my daughter learns the values of the North which made her father such a grand leader that he was capable of uniting all people of all creeds.”

“It is a well thought out move,” Sansa replied. “Truly. And you need my permission to go forward with it all.”

A little confused, Daenerys tilted her head slightly. “I … would hope so, yes. I would not do anything that would force you… without permission or anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Sansa turned and looked at Daeneys, eyes hardened and smile all but fallen from her pale lips. “Very well, Queen Daenerys. As head of the House Stark, I give you permission to ask for my brother’s hand in marriage.”

Completely taken aback, Daenerys looked at Sansa like she was grown an extra set of eyes. Which, in turn, made Sansa’s stony expression disappear in turn for a confused and alarmed one.

“Your brother?” Daenerys repeated, laughing at the shock of it. “I… With all due respect, Sansa, I  _did_ just spend a lot of time with your brother and…” Unable to find a better term she laughed and continued with, “It was  _bloody weird.”_

Sansa let out a sigh of relief and laughed with the queen. “Yes. It would… Yes definitely. But… If that isn’t your request… What is?”

Daenerys suddenly realized that her request was, for Sansa at least, coming completely out of nowhere. Completely without precedent. And, in truth, she shouldn’t have expected otherwise.

“I…” Daenerys breathed deep into the cold air. “Tyrion and I have this phrase we have used since we met. Politics, the way the world works, how ruling has been done for generations since Aegon the Conquerer landed on Westerosi shores. We call it  _the wheel_. And my desire, my only true desire, has been to fight so that I rule and do so in a way which breaks the wheel entirely.” She leveled her gaze into Sansa’s eyes. “I believe a magic runs in the veins of certain men and women, that makes their dreams a reality should they fight for them. And I have fought, and  _fought,_ and  _fought._ The reason that Missandei introduces me with all of my titles is because I take pride in the battle represented by each and every one of those names. And none more so than my last earned title —  _the Queen that was Chosen._ It is important to me that people choose to follow me. It is important to me that my example changes expectations for rulers, for women, for foreigners, for  _magic_ brought back into our world.”

“Then what is the change you propose now?” Sansa asked curiously.

Daenerys felt herself uncharacteristically hesitant to answer that exact question. She put a finger to her lip in thought and then looked back at Sansa. “We are both getting older, Lady Sansa,” she started.

“Well, if I must be truthful for a Stark’s word to still have meaning, I suppose I can admit to that,” Sansa joked.

“And neither of us have taken up husbands, despite what the world has demanded of us as women,” Daenerys explained.

Sansa took a breath and glanced off. “My luck in marriage is tumultuous at best, Daenerys. With no offense to your Hand.”

“I’m aware,” Daenerys replied. “You could say much the same of me… but I think it’s important to note that we both are referring to marriages to men.”

Looking at Daenerys immediately, Sansa tilted her head. “What? Of course we are.”

“I wish to break the wheel, Sansa,” Daenerys continued. “I wish to strengthen the faith of the people of the North, and I want to change what they believe is possible. Not through magic and dragons this time, but through  _people._ I want to marry so that others may marry, so that history will see an example of a union that was not merely political but  _reformatory.”_

Truly taken aback, Sansa held a hand to the Stark emblem on her chest. “Some women like pretty girls,” she said to herself.

“What is that?” Daenerys asked, slightly confused.

Sansa looked back at her, eyes still wide from shock. “It’s… it’s something someone dear to me once told me. She tried to explain to me that most women don’t get to know what they like until they’ve tried.”

Daenerys understood. “And some women like pretty girls,” she agreed. “And I want that to be something that truly is okay, that is looked  _up to_ rather than  _down on_ for all of my people.”

They stood together in the cold, silent and hesitant.

But Daenerys steeled herself and held out a hand. “Lady Sansa, Warden of the North, Lady of Wintefell, will you help me break the wheel? Will you raise my daughter with me as your own so that she will know the values your your house as well as mine, so that she sees kinship with wolves as much as dragons. Will you be my queen, and show all the lands that some women like pretty girls, and our love for them is not lessened for it? That, perhaps, it can be even greater?”

Sansa was silent for what felt like ages, but Daenerys did not drop her hand, leaving it extended toward the Lady Sark.

Then, finally, Sansa delicately laid her hand in Daenerys’.

“Queen Daenerys,” Sansa answered, a true smile growing on her face for the first time that Daenerys had seen. “I want to break the wheel.”

They stood, breathless beside each other, hands gripping each other, then intwining fingers. They didn’t know what to do next, but like everything else in her life, Daenerys trusted her instincts and went in for a kiss against Sansa’s lips.

Fortunately for Dany, by some innate magic, her instincts were so often right.


End file.
